the rivers that speak of us, warmer bodies nectars of jasmine and hibiscus- a lady from photograph, biting a strange loneliness sitting onto her bosom a strange memory of distilled longings- a lady that sulks and pronounce everything watery, dreams of wildfire and river-beds I travel through her caricature, her oblong drifting fingers, eyes of pain and despair- eyes- a mirage of limbs too, I watch her and think of this pregnant sky day and night. She- a soliloquy od soft pastel dreams. ------------------------------ Read the newest newsletter here- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
Tag Archives: poetess
Longings
Longings My days are cryptic with mellow songs sunflowers pressed on my bosom, on my chest. My days are usually full of lies and loneliness with a wildflower travelling through my veins, Where a mind refuses to sleep, a haunted manor of poetry painted carpets a garden of lover’s daydream At sunsets I visit temples, where my sins could fade away a little along with the leaves of my hope along with the tree that grew along with me. I sometimes wish to marry that tree of hope, the one that nurtured the oblivious lips of dull moon, filling it with moonflowers filling with hanging creases of paper lanterns, a fading memory wilt often. Somehow Somewhere Where my body trembles like a low music, a sister’s ritual of love affairs: I am not sure what do I long the most the memories or the moments? ---------------------------------- Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI
The Awakening-
If I could,
I would evaporate through your mouth
a doorawy to dreams
and tiny dots-
wild mushrooms dancing atop our bodies
as if we have trapped the moon in our eyelids-
eyelids that do not utter a word,
flowers on terrace,
static noises
we scratch water with nails,
dirt on our palms
to know the film of our memory
floating in the lake
through breasts, heaviness
and Autumn that still looks upon us and smile.
smile to see us vacant
and full, altogether.
An awakening of God's music
temple bells- gongs
negating everything else/
but this stays
this blooms.
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Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.
Crimson skins – US
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The sad picture-
It’s about us. Our static atmosphere which keeps changing its dimension. Through the clandestine mouths of river and a dark cloud. At times, there is nothing but a tainted shadow our love growing a thick layer of fungus. We grow, anyway.
We grow and talk about the leftover meals, the swollen flowers of our garden, everything falling apart. Hush! We do not speak of the silence that lingers our throat sitting like a huge wound on our chest. The sad, forlorn shackles of stark grief. What goes beyond is treacherous, as if. A landscape dipped in the shades of sunsets and piquant feelings, a leaf coiling into a serpent. A flower wilting into a moth, things happen, just like that.
The screams are a reflection of an unslept sky. The dying women in neighbours. The abhorrence that is a moisture to the nature. Nature- it often mocks our grilled love and considers it a green fever. We grow anyway. We grow through the carcass, a catastrophe of splitted existence. Through kitchen sinks, chairs and through people, we grow like melted wax. A sharp body shedding its skin through and through.
Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
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Summer-
The collarbone cracks open,
a petal of your name,
a thick cloud of lust
sounds that speak only of splitted grass
I see you
and I think oh 'home'
honey-suckled touch,
tongues:
tongues interwined into sheets of desire
of lukewarm, misted talks
about us and hopes to stay.
It is Summer now,
a season of orange hope,
golden grass grinning through the wind.
It is Summer.
I am inhabitated by the scent of it
that twirls my skin and turn it into faces of love.
I am a Summer-myself
bleeding through my cold sphere
daylight:
water on my toes
a gossip you all want to hear.
I am Summer for you-
for you to cling onto
for you to breathe the scent.
I am stoked to announce that recently Indie Blu(e) Published its another beautiful anthology Through the Looking Glass– which includes my poem about Mental Health as the theme was the same. I urge you all to check out the same here .
Have you read Crimson Skins yet?
If not please check it out on Kindke, Pothi, Amazon etc.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
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sense of staying- a poem
Hi, Welcome to my poetry world yet again. I guess we all have no better solution rather than staying positive and hopeful. I am glad to feel this positive vibe yet again after all that India has been through and is still dealing. I am trying to do as much as I can and that includes taking care of my mental health as well.
Sharing a poem. Let me know your views and in general how life has been treating you all?:)
And maybe this shall never end-
Here, I rest my palms along with the stars,
honey-suckled,
twigs of sunsets
hoping for tree of wishes
a spoon of lukewarm winters
which sits beside my small mind
a roar of summer breeze,
producing so much that only my heart can see,
and maybe this shall never end-
yet I long for coral sweaters,
grass
attachment layered sky
above and below-
the dreamcatchers
in the grainy rain.
Our mouths unravelling
and spitting a tongue of hibiscus growing
scrubbing:
scrubbing all the sins away
lights spinning- gold,
poppies in a bathtub
and leaves fluttering across our bodies-
we want this,
a human touch
a human being, indeed.
If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it is soon going to be an year for my book and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.
sharing links-
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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Understanding Poetry
How much is too much? Inosculate, squalid words on your sheet the layers that speak of my heavy mind are supposed to be easy to ingest? How? The air is as pellucid as my eye of misery. but the words do not stop here the words do not stick just to the head there is death occurring these days enough for me to write a lament a lament about this stomach this body this hour of existence. the hour that speaks of loss survival requires prayer hope and warriors who are we, I ask? the sufferers or the healers? The syntax is an old odium I refuse this hour I refuse the way you swallow my poetry my half- burnt mind is my solace and a tragedy. Disintegrated shreds of light.
Hi! The rise in the pandemic cases especially in India , in my city have taken a serious toll on my metal health and I am sure it is equally bad for the rest. This poem comes out from a place pain, misery. Thank you for reading.
Generally I would attach a link to my book, etc..but I do not feel right now so you can ignore.
This Moment
Inspired by- Eavan Boland
A balcony.
Brewed tea. Things are getting ready.
a neighbour folds her dried out clothes.
Another vendor strolls across the streets.
Oranges and papayas , he screams.
Stars and moon,
things become raw at night.
Opaque tunes of the clouds distorting,
things pause as the sun sets in.
This moment,
a women walks in the kitchen
to get things ready for dinner.
A bizzare hustle,
Fruits ripening,
An old painting getting chipped.
This moment.
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Falling Dream
I am quiet too often
like the empty hallways,
humming a song already forgotten
with a tilting toe towards the sun
a sigh: pink fingers dipped in pain
a sigh: pink fingers dipped in hallucination
there is a staircase now
falling beneath my parting head
half towards left,
half towards right
days whistling on sea waves
about my country in flames,
about my city in illusions
watching a cloud
things fall under the feet now
a complete loss of sense
tiny leaflets fluttering
green songs that reflect nothing.
the survival becomes a pungent smell often
with absent glares
and a blue sea that is a part of my dream.
My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-
Crimson Skins- India
Pothi- https://store.pothi.com/book/devika-mathur-crimson-skins/
lady in white
I know of a lady in white
with a mouth full of promises,
spreading a nocturnal path of flowers,
like a longed kiss above the eye,
a lady that slips in my chest,
within the small rim of my fist,
a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist.
a lady with a potato peel,
with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table,
entangled like dust in her bun,
mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder,
a moment of purple sanity,
a lady in white that lives in a suburban city,
with marigolds just in her eyes.
—————————————————————
Find my published collection Crimson Skins worldwide.
You can read my collection on Barnes & Noble , too.
Releasing this 2020- Crimson Skins
I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.
I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.
Thank you for always reading and supporting me.
Devika
My newsletter- Tiny Letter
Dear all,
Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.
You won’t be disappointed.
You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.
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thanks.
On Dreams
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth with a hint of mauvish whisper the whisper spills everywhere enveloping things around me. Dreams create illusion of being permanent of sticking to the odd times with a mayhem stuck to the air. You would wish to sit and digest each tiny aspect of dreams with a mind of a spider trying to decode the methods but you would end up missing on your pills. It does not matter anymore the warm shade of conclusions till the time your hands are rooted in the soil till the time you hands feel the pain, yellow or orange. There is something to change the blood into passion, dreams that becomes nightmares colours that become a chalice of poison. It does not matter.
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A blank slate
I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
separating recklessly.
Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.
I sink
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.
These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.
The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.
I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.
(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)
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Oranges
There is a way to eat fruits.
The bites, cuts, peeling discloses a lot about the process,
about manifestations, prayers.
The layers are a cryptic code,
defining a particular gender.
What do you name Oranges?
A blossom of Goddess or the sweat of a man?
The tender skin hides the juices
of fervor and desires
step 1: Do not gulp it easily, it might choke you.
Step 2: Observe the underlying dots & thickness of the zest.
Step 3: Divide it into a group for easy naked observation.
Step 4: Rub the Albedo.
Step 5: Open the part and drink the nectar.
( Do not hesitate to sprinkle the skin on the face)
Splash,
the flavoring chemicals begin to revolve
& this is how it falls inside your mouth
with a sky of teak words,
creating lust with teeth.
There is a way to eat Oranges
with harmony dancing.
Inspire after reading Figs- D.H Lawrence
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A prayer to hope
Cities left like empty vases,
soundless minds,
a spot once full
looks ghastly.
Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,
Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.
Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.
Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
a pill,
a prayer,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.
Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.
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